


Guard yer man weel through the night

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Time, James is brave, Love is what matters, M/M, So is Robbie, The power of music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it’s not as if James actually thinks to himself – <i>I have to make this better for him</i>. He doesn’t have to – the urge to care for Robbie Lewis is the message that every firing synapse spreads, that every cell carries. It’s what the letters of his DNA spell out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The final chapter of this story involves three pieces of music. I've put links (to youtube videos of them) in the body of the story, but in case following those links while you're reading might be too disruptive, I've also put the links below, and in the summary for that chapter, so you can listen/watch before or after reading. 
> 
> I'm sure I don't need to say this, but I will just in case - if you do go and watch the videos and decide to leave comments there (which you might because the music/musicians are fantastic!), please don't mention this fic as your reason for visiting - I'm really not looking for a lot of non-fandom people to come and read my little story - this is my first really explicit piece of writing and I'm feeling shy enough about it, as it is. Thanks x
> 
> Thanks for skilled and supportive beta-ing from [Lindenharp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lindenharp/pseuds/Lindenharp).
> 
> The explicit rating is for the final chapter only.
> 
> [Video 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWWBXPo1PXQ)  
> [Video 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQl1I_2ArK4&feature=related)  
> [Video 3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bRR6DVWEUM)

They’ve been investigating the suspicious death of a professor of neurology; a case that has Robbie looking particularly pained - not just because of the senseless loss of life, but because of the attitude of her colleagues to her death. She was the principal investigator on a multi-million pound research grant, and all some of them seem to care about is what will happen to the study now she’s dead – whether the funding will be pulled. Robbie and James are trying to piece together the last hours of the poor woman’s life and all most people seem to want to talk about is money and their academic standing. When they interview the second author on the grant, he actually says to Robbie, “You’re not an Oxford man, are you? You couldn’t possibly understand. This will set my career back by at least three years.”

Finally, when the case is solved (a less talented, bitter ex), they head to the pub. James listens as Robbie lets off steam about how shocked he still sometimes is at people’s callousness – and that he’d never known anything quite like it till he moved to Oxford. Of course he expects the criminals to be cold-hearted bastards, but he’d never known ordinary people – the witnesses and bystanders – to be quite this unsympathetic, in Newcastle. 

He moves onto other thoughts about the case, but James is curious. 

“Do you miss it? The northeast?” 

Robbie pauses, his pint halfway between the table and his mouth. “Nah, not really. I’ve said before, if I missed it that much, I’d be living there, wouldn’t I?” 

He takes a long drink of beer, gazing directly ahead of him in an unfocused way that James knows means he’s not quite finished. 

“There’s things I do miss, I suppose, but they’re from when I was a kid mostly. Me mam used to make me pan haggerty – you probably don’t even know what that is, do you?” 

James inclines his head, acknowledging the possibility. 

“It’s got potatoes and onions and you cook it in a frying pan on the top of the stove. Me mam used to put smoked fish – kippers or smoked haddock in it, I think – I don’t really know, but it was the best thing you could eat on a cold, Newcastle night.” 

He sighs. “Val used to do it for me too, sometimes.”

There’s a long pause and James isn’t sure if that’s it, but his detective’s (and priestly) instincts say the thing to do now is to sit and wait and see. A couple of minutes pass, but James is in no hurry. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Eventually Robbie starts again, more animated this time. 

“When I was a lad, we used to go up the coast to Craster, or Bamburgh, on day trips. Rough seas sometimes – bracing would be a kind way of putting it. Didn’t mind the cold when we were kids, though – running in and out of the sea in all weathers. We’d always get kippers to bring back. There was this little place – in Craster, I think – a fish smokers run by a local family – been there donkey’s years. Me dad reckoned they did the best fish in the world.” He takes another mouthful of beer. “Haven’t had kippers for years.” 

He carries on, not really looking at James – it’s more like he’s telling himself stories from the past. 

“And me granddad – me Mam’s dad – used to take me and our Alan to the folk nights at the local workingmen’s club. There’d be a few old boys sitting round a table – ex-miners and ship-builders, mostly – and they’d work their way through all these songs about sailors with a girl in every port, and what it was like working down the pit. Songs about murder too, sometimes. Just a few rough voices and a fiddle and sometimes the Northumbrian pipes. I loved it. I miss that.” 

Then he seems to realise that he’s been rambling – he glances up at James, looking a bit embarrassed. “Daft, still missing things like that after all these years.” 

He finishes his pint pretty quickly, and James drinks down his to keep up with him, and they call it a day. Robbie seems his usual self as they say their goodbyes – teasing James about something or other, but all James can think about is Robbie’s face – how happy he’d seemed, caught up in the memories, and, just for a moment, how lost he’d looked as he came back to reality. And it’s not as if James actually thinks to himself – _I have to make this better for him._ He doesn’t have to – the urge to care for Robbie Lewis is the message that every firing synapse spreads, that every cell carries. It’s what the letters of his DNA spell out.


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later they’re having a particularly dull time of it – no case to get their teeth into – just endless paperwork to file and policy documents to read. Each time James glances up at him, Robbie looks more fed up. James gives himself a minute, gathering together all the pens on his desk and then lining them up in a neat row – a moment of order to balance how giddy he suddenly feels. He clears his throat.

“Got any plans for Saturday night, sir?” 

“Well.” Robbie looks like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Thought I’d get me nails and hair done and go out clubbing.” 

James mouth twitches. “Yes, very amusing, sir. Well, if your plans fall through, you could always come round to mine for dinner. I feel like cooking something new – I’m bored senseless eating the same things all the time. There’s only so much tofu a person can stomach.” 

Robbie snorts. “I suppose there is. Well, it depends what you have in mind. I’m not eating anything” – he searches for the right word – “weird.” James smirks. 

“You can take that look off your face. You know what I mean. Snails or – God what was it we had in Greece once – oh, boiled cuttlefish. Or anything raw that’s meant to be cooked. I once had to eat steak tartare at a posh Police Federation do that Morse volunteered me for.” He shudders at the memory.

James smiles. “I don’t know what I’ll be inspired to create, sir, but the plan is to cook, not just to arrange some raw minced beef around an egg yolk, I can assure you.” 

“Ok then. What time d’ya want me?”


	3. Chapter 3

It’s five to seven and James is standing in front of the mirror in his bedroom. He’s changed his clothes three times and he’s still not sure about the black jeans and inky blue shirt he’s ended up in. The bare v of his throat looks startlingly pale against the dark blue. He does up a button, then undoes it again, and sighs. This is ridiculous – it’s not like it’s a date. But he feels nervous. He’s put so much effort, so much care into this evening. And now of course he’s certain it’s all too much. _I just want him to be happy._

The doorbell goes at seven on the dot - it’s too late to change anything now, anyway. He answers the door, and can’t help smiling – Robbie’s wearing the clothes that James likes best on him – a particular pair of jeans – old and faded – that fit him really nicely, and a dove grey shirt that’s been washed so many times that James has to fight the urge to lean in and rest his cheek against the soft, almost downy, cotton on Robbie’s shoulder. 

There’s a smell of good, home cooking permeating the flat, and as Robbie walks down the hall towards the kitchen, he cocks his head, as if he can smell something familiar, but can’t quite work out what it is. 

“What’s on the menu, Sergeant?” 

James busies himself with opening two bottles of Newcastle Brown. He hands Robbie his beer and a glass with a self-conscious smile. 

“It’s pan haggerty, sir. You mentioned it a couple of weeks ago and I was intrigued, so I found a recipe and . . . .” He breaks off because Robbie is staring at him. 

“You cooked me pan haggerty?” 

James scans his governor’s face for clues, because he suddenly can’t tell if he’s done a really idiotic thing – reminded his boss of his dead wife and his dead mother, all in one stupid dish. But then Lewis’ face breaks into a huge grin. 

“You never did?! I haven’t had that for years, man. The first real row Val and me had after we got married was over pan haggerty. I told her it was me favourite, and bless her, she made it for me one night, and it was great, and I told her” – he shakes his head in disbelief at how young and naïve he’d been – “I told her it was nearly as good as me mam’s!” 

James tuts and is about to say something extremely facetious but Robbie holds up a hand to stop him. “I know, I know. I thought she’d take it as a compliment!” Their eyes meet and Robbie laughs out loud. “ I had to be very persuasive to get her to make it again, mind.” 

James raises an eyebrow. “I’m not sure I can cope with the details of your persuasiveness, sir.” His voice is half an octave lower than usual. “Some things are best left to the imagination.” Robbie looks a bit embarrassed but then shakes his head and smiles. 

“Shut it, you – and get me dinner on the table.” 

There’s a smirk forming on James’ face as he turns back to the stove. “Yes, sir.” 

The sight of Robbie sitting at the little table in his kitchen, sipping beer and watching happily as he dishes out the dinner, is more than enough reward for all the hours of planning and effort that he’s put into this evening. Robbie surveys the table, and James offers up a silent prayer of thanks that he’d whipped the candles away at the last moment and shoved them in a drawer. _Definitely too much._  

“Serviettes, eh? We are being posh.” 

James looks down at him and drawls, in the most condescending voice he can muster:

“If we were being posh, _sir_ , we’d be calling them napkins.” 

Robbie laughs and shoots him a look that says _touché._

They start to eat, and Robbie discovers the smoked fish in amongst the potatoes and onions. 

“So, apparently they sell kippers in Oxford! I’ve never thought to look. I’ll have to get meself some for breakfast sometime.” 

James has debated with himself all week whether he’s going to tell him, but in the end he just can’t supress the part of him that needs to be precise, accurate, even when he’s likely to be teased for it. 

“I’m sure they do sell them in Oxford, sir, but actually, these are from Craster.” 

Robbie looks up from his plate, confused.

“You’re having me on?” 

“I’m really not. I found a family-run business on-line that posts them anywhere in the UK – they’ve been there for almost 100 years – probably the company you remember from your childhood trips.” 

Robbie shakes his head in fond amazement. “That’s a lot of bother to go to, James.” 

“I know.” He looks away, embarrassed – feels like he’s been caught doodling their names together in the back of a schoolbook. “I just . . . I wanted to get it right.” _For you._

Robbie smiles and raises his glass to toast him. 

“Well thank you. It’s the best meal I’ve had in years. Course, the company’s a bit rough, but you can’t have everything.” 

The corners of James’ mouth are turning up into a proper smile, and he can’t control it. He just loves this, loves the way Robbie pulls him time and time again away from awkwardness, into this easy, affectionate banter. He doesn’t know how to do this with anyone else. Truth is, he’s never wanted to do this with anyone else. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are the links to the music videos:
> 
> [Video 1](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWWBXPo1PXQ)  
> [Video 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQl1I_2ArK4&feature=related)  
> [Video 3](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bRR6DVWEUM)

After the meal, they move into the lounge, with a couple more beers. Robbie flops down on the middle of the sofa, while James switches on the iPod that he’s got connected to his speakers. He eases himself down next to Robbie, fiddling with the label on his beer bottle as he waits for the music to [start](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWWBXPo1PXQ). And start it does – the joyous, reedy, rush of a wild jig being played on the Northumbrian small pipes.  

Lewis opens his mouth, closes it, and then tries again. “What’s this?!” 

“It’s the Northumbrian small pipes, sir.” 

“I know _that_. Ok, who’s the fella playing? And why – he’s got a puzzled look on his face – why have you done all this?” – he waves his hand round, indicating the kitchen, the living room. “You’ve put a lot of work into this evening, haven’t you?” 

“ _She_ ’s Kathryn Tickell, and she’s arguably the best Northumbrian pipes player there is right now.” James takes a swig of beer, washes it round his mouth, holding the bittersweet liquid on his tongue. The music changes to a slower, more mournful piece and they sit in silence, listening for a minute or two. 

“And my other question, James?” 

James looks away, takes in a breath, and releases it slowly through his nose. “You, you came alive when you talked about the folk music, the pan haggerty - about the people who cooked your favourite food for you or took you to hear great music. I wanted . . . I didn’t like the idea of no one doing those things for you. You should have the things that make you happy.”

His little speech runs out of steam and he looks very uncomfortable. 

“James, man.” Robbie’s voice is soft and warm. “James.” 

James drags his eyes away from the bottle label he’s been picking at and meets Robbie’s gaze. Robbie’s eyes are vividly blue, the lines around them, soft and creased as he smiles. 

“I do have things that make me happy. Look at me. I’m with me best mate, belly full of good food, a Newkie Brown in me hand. What’s better than that?” 

James shakes his head, frowning, suddenly furious. _How can this man settle for so little?_ He presses on before he can stop himself. “It’s not enough – for you. What about being close to someone? What about love, affection?” He’s almost shouting. 

Robbie looks disorientated by the sudden personal direction the conversation’s gone in, but it’s his turn to frown, to raise his voice. He twists himself round so he can look directly at James. 

“Well what about you then? If this isn’t enough for me, it sure as hell can’t be enough for a young man like yourself. What about you having a bit of happiness?!” 

James grips the beer bottle; forces himself to sound steady. “It’s different for me, sir.” He speaks precisely, as if it’s just a matter of logic. “You’ve been used to . . . those things. A family life, et cetera. I’ve never really had any of that so obviously I don’t miss them in the same way.” 

Robbie stares at him, looking completely exasperated, like he’s never heard such rubbish in all his life. They sit there on the sofa in silence, glaring at each other – neither of them having any idea what to say next. Then the music [changes](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQl1I_2ArK4&feature=related) again. Three women with northeastern accents, singing to each other in heart-breaking harmony: 

“Guard yer man weel through the night

Hold him at dawn’s early light” 

James feels something dangerous rising in his chest – he’s not sure if he’s going to cry or giggle – or do something he’ll utterly regret. Robbie’s still staring at him, and it feels like there’s nowhere to hide. 

A sweet single voice implores him: “Love him while he’s still at home.” 

They might be singing about the dangers of mining, about the risk of losing the man you love down the mine, but policing’s no less dangerous – he could lose Robbie tomorrow. They could misjudge a situation, some bastard could pull a knife, and he’d be gone – the only person James has ever really felt connected to. 

He puts the bottle down on the coffee table, and wipes his hands on his jeans, decision – however reckless – made. He reaches over and takes hold of Robbie’s right hand with his left, and raises it to his mouth, brushing his lips over the dry, rough skin on the knuckles. He closes his eyes tightly. It’s not really a kiss – he just holds the back of Robbie’s hand against his mouth and breathes like that for a few seconds, before gently placing it back down on the sofa between them. 

He opens his eyes again but can’t look at Robbie. The singing women mourn their men in anticipation. He bows his head, staring at his treacherous hand, now resting on his knee.

“James, man.” Robbie sounds tense, careful, like he’s trying to work out how to defuse a bomb, doesn’t want anyone to get hurt. _Too late._ “I’m sorry, I . . . Hell. I don’t know what to say.” 

“ _I’m_ sorry sir. There’s nothing _to_ say. It’s just the music and the beer. Be fine tomorrow.” 

Robbie tries again. “I’m no good at . . .” 

It’s agony. “Sir. _Robbie_. Don’t. _Leave_ it.” But Robbie won’t. 

“Look at me James.” James shakes his head. 

“Please.” He sounds distressed. 

So James complies, because short of running out of his own house, what else can he do? He turns his face towards Robbie, fully aware of what his boss will see written there – what he’s finally, after all this time, failed to hide. 

James knows that Robbie Lewis is a compassionate man, and even faced with the no-doubt bewildering and unwished-for sight of his sergeant looking at him with raw, naked longing, James expects he’ll try and do what he thinks is the kindest thing – an apologetic half-smile, a pat on the shoulder maybe, and a plausible reason for him to head off into the night. James braces himself for the inevitable. 

In the event, what Robbie actually does is reach out a not very steady hand and strokes James’ cheek with the pad of his thumb, tracing where the smooth skin graduates into the slightest hint of stubble. He looks puzzled – as if he can’t quite work out how his hand got there. 

James knows he should pull away now, knows that it’ll feel like surgery without anaesthesia when this is taken away again – but God, he can’t. If you were only ever going to get one chance to see the sun in the whole of your life, wouldn’t you stare into it, even if you knew it was blinding you? James half closes his eyes and turns his head so that Robbie’s thumb slides to the corner of his mouth, his fingers warm against his cheek. James sighs, leaning into the hand. He turns further, and Robbie’s thumb drags across his closed lips, and they both groan at the sensation. _Fuck._  

And then the hand’s gone, brushing against his cheek as it falls away, and James feels the inevitable plummeting of his heart – a too-young bird, falling from the nest onto the concrete below. He feels Robbie shifting position and assumes that he’s getting up to go . . . but then Robbie’s knee brushes against his, and James’ eyes fly open. Robbie’s turned round a bit more so that he’s facing him without having to twist his back, and if anything he’s closer. His hand is hovering in mid-air between them. He looks shell-shocked. 

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what I’m doing, James. I’ve never . . . you might need to help me out with this.” 

James eyes widen even more. 

“You want . . .?” 

“Don’t really know what I want. Except . . . well,” He’s staring at James’ lips, and hesitantly reaches out to brush his thumb over them again, fleetingly, before withdrawing his hand. “This. This feels nice.” 

He looks vulnerable, in a way that James has rarely seen – unsure, when he’s used to taking charge; wanting, but not sure what he’s wanting. The last time Robbie looked this in need of looking after was when Simon Monkford admitted killing Mrs Lewis. James still feels he let him down then, but that’s not going to happen now. He feels sure of himself about this. This love – _this_ is who he is, what he’s for. 

And he knows how to do this – they’ve done it a thousand times at work – silently passing the baton, the lead, from one to the other. He nods and smiles at Robbie in a way that says: _It’s ok – let me take care of this._ He breathes in, feeling his chest expand around his rapidly beating heart, and then slowly closes the gap between them. He lightly rubs his lips against Robbie’s cheek a couple of times and whispers “Is that ok?” There’s a pause, and then Robbie breathes out a “yes.” 

Then he moves his lips a little lower, over the stubbly edge of Robbie’s jaw. Robbie makes the softest of humming noises, so he does it again, with a bit more pressure. Another little hum on an outbreath. James drags his now tingling lower lip over Robbie’s jaw and chin, so his top lip is just below Robbie’s bottom one. He waits, waits to see if Robbie can meet him, can bring their mouths together. They breathe, sharing warm, moist air. James mentally wills Robbie to move, to be brave. Finally, in the very moment that James accepts it’s not going to happen, Robbie opens his mouth a little, sliding his lower lip between James’, and James needs no more encouragement than that – he gently tugs at it with his lips, and sucks it, and with a groan from Robbie, they’re kissing. 

James holds his right hand against Robbie’s cheek, and gently explores his lips and mouth with his own. Robbie tastes of beer and the raspberries they had in their dessert. His lips are warm and a little rough, and James could spend a blissful lifetime just doing this – tasting him, feeling him. He takes his time, being so careful, terrified that he’ll do something to unnerve the other man and it’ll be over as quickly as it began. He’s already fully hard, just from this, and of course he wants more – his mind keeps ambushing him with images – of being pinned under Robbie’s solid weight, of Robbie driving into him – but he won’t let himself think about that, because what he has right now, in these tender kisses, is already far more than he ever dreamt he would have, and he wants to be present, fully alive in each moment, for as long as it lasts. 

The slow, almost hypnotic kisses stretch out over minutes, the room quiet – now the music has ended – except for the sound of their breathing and the occasional shift of weight on the sofa. Finally Robbie huffs out a breath, and growls with frustration, sending a shiver of want through James. He takes hold of James’ head with both hands and none too gently pulls him tight against him, tilting his head to fit their mouths together. He skims his tongue along James’ lips, James opens his mouth to receive him, and Robbie pushes in, their tongues sliding over each other. _Dear God_ – it’s perfect. The kisses are urgent, demanding, and James – who is unable to control the noises he’s making – just holds tightly onto Robbie and melts into it. 

When they eventually break apart, they’re both panting, and Robbie’s eyes are dark with arousal, but James knows that if this is going to go further than kissing, it’s going to be up to him to find a way. They look at each other for a long, charged moment, then James bends and kisses the little tuft of hair just showing at the open neck of Robbie’s shirt. 

“Is this ok?” 

Robbie nods slowly. James undoes one button and kisses the couple of inches of skin that have been revealed. 

“This?” 

Robbie’s watching him intently. He nods and mouths a “yes”, no actual sound coming out. Another button, another kiss, another check from James, another nod. It takes a full five minutes for James to work his way down through all the buttons, at the end of which Robbie is breathing hard, and there’s an obvious bulge in his jeans. James wants to tell him how beautiful he is like this, how he would do anything for him, to him, to give him pleasure, but he contents himself with stroking Robbie’s shoulders and arms reassuringly, and revelling in the look of dazed lust on Robbie’s face. 

He moves so that he’s kneeling on the floor in front of Robbie, and eases the front of his shirt open, placing a kiss, then another, in the centre of his chest. He gently rubs his face in Robbie’s chest hair, breathing in his scent, his heat. It feels shocking, almost surreal, that he’s doing this – that he’s allowed to do this. He pauses and looks up. Robbie’s still watching him. James returns his gaze and smiles, silently asking the question: _This ok?_ He can feel Robbie’s chest heaving under him, he knows he’s aroused, but this slow dance of consent and re-consent has become powerfully erotic – a pleasure in itself. Robbie breathes in deeply, and as he releases the breath, nods. James turns his attention back to Robbie’s chest – broad and covered in greying hair – he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful. He rubs his face over it again and again, and then slides his tongue back and forth over one of the nipples. As it hardens he takes it into his mouth and starts to delicately suck. 

“Christ, James!” Robbie bucks under him and for a second James thinks this is it, it’s all over – he’s gone too far. But then he feels Robbie’s hands slide round the back of his head, holding him against his chest, and so he takes the nipple back into his mouth and sucks and swirls his tongue around it again and again, while Robbie writhes under him, softly swearing and holding onto him.

Eventually James pulls himself free and arranges Robbie – who offers no resistance – so that he’s lying flat on the sofa. He kisses the bottom of Robbie’s ribs, then the top of his stomach, down as far as the waist of his jeans. He’s only inches away from Robbie’s groin and he can see the outline of his erection as it strains against the denim. Of course James is aching to touch him, to stroke him, to make him come, but he’s already stunned at how far this has gone – the trust that Robbie has shown. James has no idea where the line is. 

He looks up and makes eye contact with Robbie, who is flushed and panting. So many times James has hidden himself from this man, afraid of being seen for who he is, for what he needs, but now he wants him to see, to understand: _This is me loving you. This is me taking care of you. You can trust me_ – _there is nothing here but love._  

James leans down – his eyes never leaving Robbie’s for a moment – and plants a soft kiss on Robbie’s cock through his jeans, then makes himself lift his mouth away. He waits, giving Robbie time to say “enough”, to pull away, but the only sound Robbie makes is a breathy “oh”, so James dips slowly down and does it again, this time allowing himself to linger, to press a little harder, to explore the breath-taking thickness of Robbie’s cock with his mouth. Robbie moans loudly and finally, finally, closes his eyes – giving in to the sensations. He grips the edge of the sofa with both hands. James parts his lips, matching the width of Robbie’s cock, and mouths his way down the length. Robbie hisses out a “Jesus, James!” and tilts his hips up, searching for more contact. 

James undoes Robbie’s belt and jeans button – trying to keep his hands from shaking – and eases the zip down. Robbie’s cock is pushing tight against the cotton of his blue boxers, the head pressed against a damp patch where it’s already leaking a bit. James buries his face in the musky heat, rubbing his cheek and mouth over Robbie’s cock through the thin material, and his own cock – full and heavy – throbs with desire. He sucks the head, again through the material, and this time Robbie sounds desperate: “Christ! _Please._ ” 

James gets Robbie to lift his hips so that he can pull his jeans and boxers down his thighs, and finally, Robbie’s cock springs free, thick and dark and rising out of a tangle of wiry hair. It’s stunning. James wraps his right hand round the base, ghosting his lips and nose up and down the shaft, then nuzzles the soft skin of his balls – just breathing in the incredible soap-Robbie-sex smell. James has done this a couple of times before, with other men, and he’s liked it well enough, but God, this – this is bliss. He feels lightheaded with joy and desire – and the absurdity of trying to give a blowjob while grinning like an idiot is not lost to him. 

He opens his mouth wide to take in the velvet-soft head, revelling in the salt-sharp taste against his tongue, and Robbie sighs loudly. James is gentle, swirling his tongue around the head, softly caressing it with his lips, but Robbie starts to do his frustrated growling thing again, and _fuck_ , that is _the_ _most_ arousing sound James has ever heard – it makes him desperate to give Robbie whatever he needs. He sucks him in further, hollowing his cheeks, and then starts sliding up and down, massaging the head and the underside of the shaft firmly with the flat of his tongue. Robbie thrashes under him and pretty much shouts a “Yes, fuck, yes!” As James sucks harder, he glances up to see Robbie’s face, and _fuck_ , the sight is stunning. Robbie’s completely undone now – head flung back, mouth open, face flushed and damp with sweat. And James thinks his heart is going to burst with happiness, seeing the man he has loved for so long, has worried about for so long, completely lost to pleasure. How has he lived without this?  

And then as if to demonstrate just how lost in pleasure Robbie is, this man, this gentle man who James has watched consistently ignore his own needs, suddenly thrusts up into James mouth and when, because he’s taken a little by surprise, James shifts back a bit, Robbie grunts, takes hold of his head firmly with both hands, and starts to repeatedly thrust into him – fucking his mouth. It’s uncomfortable, and James has to concentrate to keep his teeth out the way, and even just to breath regularly – but it is also, without question, the most erotic thing James has _ever_ experienced. 

So he stills, just letting Robbie take what he needs. He loves the feel of Robbie’s strong fingers keeping him in place, and he’s not so tightly held that he couldn’t move if he wanted to, but _fuck_ , _why would he want to?_

His jaw is aching, his lips are sore, but the intense, almost overwhelming sensations of rhythmic thrusting and stretch are perfect, almost meditative. He feels completely at peace – like he wants to stay here – secure in Robbie’s firm embrace – forever. 

Robbie’s balls are tight up against his body now, his thrusting has speeded up, and the deep, harsh noises he’s making sound urgent. Suddenly he loosens his grip on James head, freeing him to move, and gasps “James, I’m . . .” but there’s no way that James is moving. He takes as much of Robbie’s cock as he can into his mouth, feeling the head pushing against the back of his throat. He slides his hands under Robbie’s backside, holding him tight, and seconds later Robbie cries “Christ! Fuck!” and comes hard down James’ throat, so that he has to swallow again and again. And all that exists for those long, perfect moments is the stretch of his mouth around the pulsing cock, and the sharp, strong taste of Robbie’s come. 

He holds Robbie in his mouth until he starts to soften, feeling very reluctant to move, but eventually he gently releases him and still kneeling, rests his forehead against Robbie’s thighs. His jaw is sore and his cock is still hard, and he has no idea what’s going to happen next – he just can’t picture how the world will look from this point on. Robbie stirs under him and lightly rests a hand on his shoulder. James hears him take a deliberate breath in. 

“James. You ok?” 

James kneels up and looks at Robbie, who gazes back, concern already washing over his features. And James can’t have that, can’t have Robbie lose this moment of pleasure so soon, have it turn into just another reason to fret about his sergeant. He smiles. 

“I have never been happier.” 

Robbie doesn’t look convinced. 

“I was a bit – he doesn’t know how to say it – pushy.” 

James flashes him a wolfish grin. 

“Yes, you were. And as I said, I’ve never been happier.”

Robbie’s eyes widen, almost comically. 

“Oh.” He goes quiet for a moment, obviously thinking something through. 

“Would you like . . . I mean, I could do something, you know . . . for you.” He glances at James’ groin, whose erection is still very much evident. 

And fuck, it’s tempting, of course it is. Jesus, it’s what James has fantasised about endlessly – Robbie’s hands on him, his mouth . . . but this really isn’t about that. He smiles, shaking his head. 

“Thank you, and I would like that, very much – but not now.” He pauses, suddenly hesitant, because what he really wants feels even more difficult to ask for, more revealing, more intimate in a way even than what they’ve just done.

“What I’d like" – it’s difficult to keep looking at Robbie as he says it – "what I’d like, is to lie down with you and hold you in my arms.” Robbie looks startled, like it’s not at all what he’d been expecting. He also looks younger, a bit shy even. He nods, “Ok then.” 

He shifts over on the sofa to make room for James. There’s a slightly awkward moment because of course Robbie’s used to being the bigger one, the one doing the cuddling, but they sort it out – Robbie lying with his head resting on James’ chest, James with his arms tightly round Robbie’s shoulders. They lie in silence for a while, James idly stroking Robbie’s hair. 

Eventually, Robbie shifts in his arms a little, and James wonders if he’s about to move away, but he just gets himself more comfortable and settles back down again, pressing warm against James’ body. He asks who the singers were, so James tells him about the glorious Unthanks, a band led by sisters from Tyne and Wear, who sing sober songs of life and loss, warmed by their rich, northeastern voices. Without moving from the sofa, James reaches across to the coffee table and picks up his iPod. He searches for a track: “This is my favourite.” A lone female voice [starts](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_bRR6DVWEUM): 

“Here’s the tender coming, pressing all the men. Oh, dear, hinnie, what’ll we do then?” 

The other voices and instruments join her, support her, and together they sing their song of love. 

“Here’s the tender coming . . . ” 

Robbie lifts himself up onto an elbow and gives James an old-fashioned look. 

“They’re not singing about . . .” 

“What? Rumpy-pumpy, sir?” He smiles. “Sadly not. Though I think that’s what I’ll always think of now” – he leans over and kisses Robbie lingeringly on the lips – “when I hear them.”

 

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> The fish smokers that Robbie visited as a child and that James bought the kippers from actually [exists](http://www.kipper.co.uk/)
> 
> Here's an explanation of the meaning of the final song: [Here's the tender coming](http://www.informatik.uni-hamburg.de/~zierke/frankie.armstrong/songs/heresthetendercoming.html). It is a love song, of a dark sort.


End file.
